


Broodmare

by UneJolieOrdure



Series: Reader Beware, You're In For a Scare [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bratting, Breathplay, Bridles and Bits and Crops Oh My, Choking, F/M, Horses, Minor Original Character(s), Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader's asking for it, Reader's shitty embroidery, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Riding Crops, Still can't have nice things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 00:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12200022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UneJolieOrdure/pseuds/UneJolieOrdure
Summary: You are punished for your bad behavior.





	Broodmare

**Author's Note:**

> The companion to "Purebred" and "Trout Heart Replica." I have literally no idea why all of these are animal themed. 
> 
> My computer decided to take a dive, so I've been out of commission, but I'm back now and ready to party.

You have grown complacent and disobedient, like a horse who hasn’t been ridden often enough. Since the night of your unfortunate loss, you have allowed a somewhat temperamental attitude to creep into your manner. So far, you have been permitted this indulgence, but you know that leniency will not last. Somehow, the knowledge that you will be punished for your impudence makes you relish it all the more. Every cheeky word at the dinner table that makes your father-in-law raise one chilly eyebrow, every jape at your husband's expense, every refusal to obey a command, every haughty laugh adds up to a damning toll.

The day you finally get your comeuppance, you spend the whole morning out riding with Hellen. You were taught to ride sidesaddle and never go faster than a brisk walk, but nobody at the Dreadfort is much keeping track of your ladylike sensibilities. You ride like a man. Hellen follows at a distance so as not to interrupt your thoughts, which, like your seat upon your horse, are far from refined. As you make your way along the frost-blasted heath, black with the mere thought of winter, you imagine spurring your mare into a gallop so fleet that Hellen's hardscrabble draft horse could never catch up. You imagine riding as far as the nearest village then quitting all of your material things and making a new life as some ugly baker's wife. You consider running away and taking the cloth, betraying your family name and re-dedicating your life to the Seven as a born-again virgin. You think of what Ramsay would do to you when he found you.

And he _would_ find you.

You return from your ride exhausted. Hellen adjourns to your chambers to prepare you a bath, but you linger for a moment, watching the grooms attend to your horse, a wedding present from your father. She is a mare, gentle and white as snow—the only gift your father ever gave you, ever will give you.

“Get out,” someone commands suddenly from the doorway. The grooms scurry away, but you are hardly afraid of Ramsay anymore.

“Do you plan to finish rubbing down my horse?” you ask coolly, raising your eyebrows and setting one hand on your mount's hot neck. “If not, then please call those young men back in here and let them finish their job.” He doesn’t look as if he’s in the mood for your lip.

“Where were you today?”

“Out riding with my handmaiden.”

“Did I say you could go riding?”

“I didn’t realize that you had to say.”

His nostrils flare with irritation. When he sees that you are in no way prepared to back down, he seizes your bridle from where it hangs on a nail, still warm from used, and forces the bit into your mouth, pulling it back so that it stretches your mouth, your cheeks, painful and metallic between your back teeth. The corners of your lips begin to split. The rest of the leather pulls taut against your cheeks and your nose. So bound, he pushes you up against an empty stall, controlling your movement with a handful of leather. With his free hand, he seizes a wad of heavy material and rips your dress down the back. The seamstress of the fortress will be positively distraught; she’s seen so many ripped dresses that all she must do all day is mend your tattered and sullied wardrobe.

Out of the corner of your frantic eye, you see him take your riding crop in hand from where one of the grooms left it sitting atop the post of the stall. He strikes you once, hard, with the thick leather of the crop, across one bare buttock, and you make a high, singular noise of pain. Perhaps you will be gentler with animals after this. Another stinging swat on the top of the thigh, right above your woolen stocking.

"It will be a hard winter, my lady," he growls in your ear as you groan and drip drool onto the hay below you, unable to control your facial muscles. "Perhaps we shall have to butcher that beautiful creature your lord father gave you on our wedding day." You can make no response with the foul metal clenched between your back teeth, biting into your gums, stretching your lips into a horrible, unnatural grimace. With your hands you grip the edge of the stall, white-knuckled; it won't do any good to fight him.

He rips the bit from your mouth, leaving behind a hot, coppery taste, and pulls the leather of the bridle tight around your throat. You can barely breathe, and when you do, it makes a sharp, painful whistling sound. It is then that he fucks you, bent over the stall, hauling in harsh, difficult breaths, while your mare stomps impatiently nearby. The air smells of horse and cunt. Your middle and the fronts of your thighs scrape painfully against the coarse wood of the stall. Ramsay pulls the bridle tighter, and your air supply is gone altogether. He strikes you with the crop again as he recklessly rams his cock into you, hard, relentless strokes that feel like magnificent fire. Your vision is beginning to sparkle and fade as you choke, your boots scrabbling on the dirt floor, your hands weakening their grip on the stall.

With the last of your strength, you squeeze your thighs together and come.

*

When your husband opens the door that night, you are sitting in your chair, sipping wine, with the crop on the small table in front of you. You have cleaned all the mud and horsehair from it and rubbed some sweet oil into the leather so that it doesn’t smell so foul, but it is still what it is: crude, leather, scuffed from use. His eyes alight on it for a moment and then skip expressionlessly to your embroidery frame, tucked into a basket atop your trunk but plainly visible.

“Lovely embroidery,” he says casually, pretending not to notice the object you are presenting to him. He picks it up and inspects your much-belabored battlescene piece from all angles.

“I am greatly pleased that you think so. Look, that’s you, being trampled.” You point to a dark-haired figure who is being indistinctly trampled by his own horse in the background. His laughter echoes down the hall, at once merry and dark, a promise of more pain to come.


End file.
